


The Wound is Where the Light Enters You

by TheBraveHobbit, theharellan



Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Healing, Hinterlands (Dragon Age), Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Other, Roleplay, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: Solas is wounded on the field of battle, and brought back to camp to be tended to by Ian Lavellan's healing. This world hangs upon the brink of reality, and it never feels more real than the first time Ian's hands are laid upon his skin.





	The Wound is Where the Light Enters You

**Author's Note:**

> Iander Lavellan is penned by dalishfreckles. This is part of a series of drabbles & roleplays about the relationship between their (non-Inquisitor) Lavellan and Solas as interpreted by myself. This is a repost of a roleplay. Breaks represent a change in POV. Canon divergent.

The arrow was always meant for him.

Solas had seen the anger in the rogue Templar’s eyes before they loosed the arrow. Too exhausted from the fight to magic himself away, Solas has no choice but to shield himself and hope for the best. The pain is blinding, and he sees only white as the tip pierces his shoulder. He hears his name, clear and sharp, and turns in time to see Thora cut the Templar down with a single arc of her hammer. “It’s over,” he hears Inquisitor Cadash say from his other side. “You alright, Baldy?”

He doesn’t answer, left hand weaving beneath his right armpit to touch where the arrow struck him. Blood wets his fingertips, and all he can think is this is the first time in a millennia that he’s been injured.

The last thing he does before he faints is laugh.

He awakens in a tent sometime later, laid upon his side. Beyond the flaps he can hear the telltale sounds of a camp. This time when he reaches to touch his wound he does not feel the whole shaft of the arrow, merely the head. His vision still swims at the slightest tug, however, and he decides not to risk undoing whatever it is that kept him from bleeding to death. The Cadash cousins are gone, and for the moment it seems he is alone. Magic pools at his fingertips as he considers his options. Even before the Veil healing had never been a talent of his, he cannot imagine that it has improved any in his weakened state.

His hand cools, a thin layer of frost coating the skin near the wound. The throbbing pain dulls, and the spell keeps his mind sharp enough that he does not pass out again.

“He’s just in here…” Thora’s voice cuts through the sound of a busy camp. “Take care of him, okay?” Light pours in from outside, but Solas doesn’t see who they sent until he’s kneeling before him. Freckles swim before his eyes, and his heart beats twice as fast as it had in battle.

“Ian–” He tries to move, a thoughtless action that nearly costs him his consciousness a second time. His eyes screw closed. Solas had both dreaded and hoped to see him, and now that he’s here his stomach churns as he curses his foolhardiness. When he breathes it’s carefully measured, just enough to find his voice. “I presume– they explained what happened?”

* * *

“More or less.” The smile he wears does not quite smooth the furrow on his brow, the concern that creases between his eyes. “The Herald seemed unsure whether to be more upset with you or the archer.”

Solas’s abrupt movement aggravates the injury–color flees from fever-flushed cheeks, and pain forces bright eyes closed, breathing labored and measured by force of will. Ian reaches forward to steady his patient, hands laying carefully at Solas’s side and across his chest to prevent another attempt. “Please don’t move. I know it is difficult.”

Heat pulses through his gloves–Solas’s body is working to reject the foreign metal, trying to burn it away. He does not ask after the pain–he already knows its scale, its span. He does not ask for further details of how this had happened–it does not change where they find themselves now. Now is the time for action, not retrospection.

Only a moment passes as he waits for Solas to still, and when he is satisfied–Solas’s heart beats rapid against his palm, pain and fear speeding its pulse–he retracts his hand from Solas’s chest. Lifting his fingers to his mouth, he closes his teeth over a gloved fingertip, tugging his skin free of leather. Glove still dangling from his mouth, he brushes the back of his fingers against Solas’s forehead, assessing the severity of the fever.

Solas’s forehead is warm, but not blazing, not the way his chest is. Ian’s shoulders slump with a soft sigh, relief huffing through his nose. He pulls his hands away again, quickly collecting his glove from his mouth and removing its mate from his other hand. Meeting Solas’s eyes, he smiles again–a little thin, still worried, but sincere– “Try to keep breathing. The first thing I’m going to do is remove the bandage.”

Fingers catch at his own sleeves, tugging and tucking them at his elbow, hitching the clasps that hold them out of the way of his work. He is deliberate in the task, eyes never leaving his patient–though wandering away from Solas’s own gaze–and avoiding looking at the scar wrapped wrists that he otherwise is so careful to conceal. Ian can’t spare thought to shame, right now, or to his own discomfort, and once his sleeves are secured he braces his palms against his knees, preparing to stand. “The arrow entered from behind.” Solas knows this, of course, but Ian has found that people in pain often need their healer to vocalize what is happening, and why. “I need to remove the bandage and look at the wound. You won’t be able to see me.”

Some patients, he knew, feared the loneliness of staring at canvas while their pain mounted. Others preferred it–better to struggle through alone than to allow others to bear witness to their suffering.

For Ian’s part, it always made more sense to defer to his patient. They were already in a position of vulnerability; allowing them to control what things they might was important.

He pauses, looking back towards the tent entrance before turning to study Solas’s face. “Would you like me to call Thora? To sit with you?”

* * *

He tries to laughs, although it is more of a slow exhale against the ground. “Then perhaps you can explain the sequence of events to me.”

Solas stills obediently, before Ian says so much as a word. The feeling of his hands is new, and heavy, and confusing enough that his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s false to say he hasn’t imagined it before, but he always thought it would be lighter, like water in the palm of his hands. Every day he gets realer, and Solas’s mind clouds with new doubts.

He has to remind himself to breathe again, sucking in slow breaths that don’t quite fill his lungs. Ian’s hands leave a vacuum of dead air in their wake, and the coil in his muscles unwind, but only just. His eyes remain shut, finding it easier to watch the lights dance across the back of his lids than confront reality. Still, his ears compensate in the face of his denial. They twitch at the sound of leather slipping from his hand, and it occurs to him he may never have seen Ian without them. In the field this was not an uncommon practise, but even under the shelter of Haven’s roofs they remained fixed to his hands like a second skin.

A breath later and his fingers skim across Solas’s forehead, too briefly for his doubts to hit him again. His eyes crack open, curiosity getting the better of him. Instead of hands, he sees eyes. They’re smiling, but it’s a faint echo of the laughter he’s seen in them before.

He catches sight of Ian’s fingers pulling up his sleeves, revealing a spiral of scars that needed no explanation. Solas had learned long ago what shackles did to elven skin when left to rust. The anger that rises in his throat has nowhere to go but out, and he turns his cheek to cough into the thin roll of fabric he lay on, hands balling into fists. His wound throbs as if someone has twisted it. The impulse to curl comes over him, and he pushes his feet into the wool to overcome it, Ian’s words fresh in his mind.

Nose still half-buried in his pillow, he manages to shake his head. “No need,” he grunts. “I would not put her out of her way for a second time today.”

“Do what you must.” He considers explaining that he had suffered worse, but he needn’t waste his breath. Ian will see for himself soon enough.

* * *

Ian doubts very much that Thora would begrudge the need, but he does not say so. If Solas prefers privacy, that is what they will have so long as Ian might offer it. He nods.

Solas turns his head slightly, grimacing and coughing into the thin pillow, and Ian reaches forward again, careful where his hands fall. Against the wounded shoulder, light and bracing, and heavier against Solas’s chest. “Still.” He reminds his patient gently. “Especially your head. The arrow is still there, and willing to continue its work.”

His hands retreat once more, again bracing against his knees as he pushes himself up, pulling his satchel over his head as he moves to kneel again, this time at Solas’s back. The skin is bare, save for the bandage–stained with dirt and grass and blood–that stretches to break the line of long-stretching scars. Ian recognizes the burn of lightning, the passage of a spectral blade, but he is not concerned with the hurts of yesterday, hurts he cannot unmake. What concerns him is the fresh hurt, this injury that he can tend.

Gentle fingers reach forward, resting briefly at Solas’s right shoulder, well away from the wound. “The bandage.” He says again, other hand falling to his belt to retrieve his knife. It’s a tiny blade, used more for slicing fruit than anything else, but it will serve to circumvent the tightly knotted wrapping.

“Once I cut it free, the bleeding may begin again. Breathe. I’ll have to find the head and pull it free before I can do more. It will hurt.” There’s apology in his voice, but little room for rebuttal. His fingers travel south, just brushing the edges of the wrap, and he takes a moment to align his breathing with his heartbeat. Magic stirs at his fingertips, cooling the irritated skin beneath.

“I believe it is your turn to ask a question.” The statement is somewhat abrupt, but it is an important one. From where he works, he will not be able to see Solas’s face. He needs Solas to continue to breathe, and to think of something other than the agony of his wound. Some people talked of their families, their children and lovers. Some talked of their bravery, or bemoaned their failed conquests. Once, he’d been tending to an injured scout who told him all the clever tricks she’d taught her family dog. 

Solas has never spoken of family, nor been one to boast overmuch over his own achievements…and Ian does not think he could well perform his task if Solas were to speak of past loves. But Solas never tires of questions, and, as Ian says, “I will work as quickly as I can, but we will not be leaving soon. Ask a question, or shall I?”

* * *

This time when Ian touches him he loosens, the tension in his muscles easing as Ian presses against him. Hands free of gloves, Solas can feel the magic in his fingertips. When he breathes he he catches a whiff of a brisk spring rain, despite the fact that outside autumn is already turning green leaves orange. The sensation is as welcome as it is troubling. The Veil pulls apart around scarred hands, and for an instant Solas sucks in air closer to what was, and not is. Still, in the back of his mind he cannot help but see this as evidence against his preconceptions.

“Apologies,” he mutters when he finds his breath. “You would think I could not forget.”

Ian moves, and his muscles tense once more. He attempts to recapture the feeling, but when he inhales the mundane autumn air tightens his throat. His eyes fall shut, allowing his ears to continue following Ian behind him. The tips twitch slightly, focusing upon the sound of something being retrieved from Ian’s person.

Solas had heard all of this before, although not for centuries. The rebellion’s medics were often just as calm, and just as willing to ensure that he was not a passive object in his own healing. He wonders if it would make Ian proud to hear that, then remembers the stories the Dalish had woven, and thinks better of imagining it. Though his throat closes, he forces himself to breathe in and count the seconds before he exhales. “I’m ready.”

He listens, waiting for the sound of a bandage being torn. Instead he hears magic, the soft sound of bells that draw small bumps to the surface of his skin. It helps, and in more ways than Ian could imagine.

Pointed ears perk at Ian’s question. Solas’s eyes open, though all he can do is watch the light dance across the tent’s canvas. His lips part, then curve into a fond smile. “Now would be the time for you to ask a question. Perhaps one you have been hesitating to ask, seeing as I am in no state to run,” he teases.

* * *

“Alright.” Ian says quietly. He does not respond to the tease, though he might usually dispute it. He has no desire to hold an audience captive, and he knows that neither does Solas.

His hand slides slowly, magic-cooled fingers slipping beneath the bandage–well away from the injury itself, close to the tightly knot in the linen–and lifts it gently from the skin. “Take your time to answer. Measure your breathing, if you can.” Ian’s other hand brings the knife forward. The sharp edge angles up against the bandage, dull side hardly skimming Solas’s back. “I had…mmm.” Questions came easier with each conversation, but hesitation stutters at his tongue even as his fingers works without it. The knife slides quickly, meeting no resistance, and the bandage starts to fall away. Hands shuffling expertly, Ian presses one against the dressing, holding it in place as he tucks the knife back at his belt.

“I had wondered what your first encounter with…what…who was the first spirit you ever met?”

Both his hands are free again, and he places one below the dressing, a constant stream of cool magic pooling at his palm. He lifts the other, pushing the bandage to the side, careful as he peels it from the wound. He leaves it draped over Solas’s arm, within reach should he need the fabric again, and now Ian can clearly see the wound he is here to treat.

Dark discoloration pools where the skin burns, broken by the passage of the arrow. The skin sticks awkwardly to itself where the Cadash cousins had worked to stem the bleeding. Blood oozes, rather than flows. Time and careful tending has stemmed its flow, for the time being. No bit of shaft remains, either broken away or fallen free as the catgut tie loosened upon imbedding.

Ian is so careful as he reaches forward. The closer he draws to the wound, the more he risks aggravating what pain already exists. “I have to find the head.” He reminds his patient. His palm lands softly against the open cut, hardly touching the skin. Still, he can feel the pulse of it, the aching throb that beats against his palm. Heat radiates through the controlled chill of his own skin, and muscles jump in protest of the slightest pressure. Blood, pooling beneath the surface, bubbles free of shifted skin, hot and sticky against his fingers.

He closes his eyes, slows his breathing. Deep inhales, exhales. His palm hovers against the wound, and his right hand slides to rest over Solas’s shoulder. Little pressure there, either, but ready if needed. His eyes are closed, and he slows his breathing. Inhales, exhales. His world shrinks, his senses narrow. Inhales, exhales. He cannot see, cannot smell, can hardly hear–Solas’s breathing, Solas’s heartbeat, the pulsing drum against his own palm–but he does not need those senses, right now. Inhales, exhales. He can feel the passage of the arrow, the canyon it has torn in skin and muscle and tendon. Inhales, exhales. Its shape is foreign against the body he senses, wickedly barbed and dented, deep biting into the blade of his shoulder. Inhales, exhales. Blinks.

“The…the arrowhead is biting into bone.” He swallows, world swimming as he releases the magic, temporarily, grounding himself back to where he kneels, needing to communicate with his patient before he begins the harder process. “I can remove it, but I will wait until you are prepared.”

* * *

It would be a lie to say he hasn’t imagined what it is like to be touched by Ian before, though he hadn’t dreamed it would be like this.

First, he told himself it would feel like nothing. Like stone beneath his fingers, unmalleable and cold. Then he imagines it warmer, and warmer still, but always returns to the first illusion, if only so he could prolong his denial. Now, there is nothing to perpetuate his misconceptions. Reality has two hands, and a kind heart, and unmakes Solas’s world even while it mends his broken skin.

Magic seeps into his skin, the spell itself more calming than the healing effect. He swallows thickly, then breathes in deep through his nose. When he counts, he counts in a familiar rhythm, similar to the slow and measured breathing of his meditation sessions. The bandage falls away, and he can feel the stickiness of congealed blood along the edge of where the wrapping lay.

His ears twitch, lips turning into a faint smile when he realises how quickly Ian had righted himself. “Thank you,” he mutters, “for the correction. You’re a faster learner than most.” And perhaps he has to be, given the winding direction his life has taken him, but whatever the reason, Solas is grateful for the distinction.

“The first spirits I met were those of Joy, short-memoried spirits who will never remember me as I remember them.” Even the most content of people experience joy in bursts, and so the spirits remade themselves, day-by-day, to preserve who they are. “Wisdom was the first, the one who remembered, nor will ever forget. It– ah,” he grunts, falling silent while Ian searches. His teeth bite down upon his lower lip until it glows white, and when he inhales he quavers. 

“– I came upon it as a child, as full of questions as it was answers.” Calm, and kind, and unafraid of the young boy who fancies himself a wolf. “And it listened.”

Solas’s eyes close, and he sees Wisdom’s face dance across the back of his lids. It had been so long since their paths had crossed. He hopes he sees it again before his end.

As Ian’s world narrows, Solas’s widens. His heart quickens, beating like thunder against his ribcage, and he cannot tell if it is from fever or affection. Spasms of pain flicker through him, and he cannot stop his shoulders from twitching against Ian’s palms. He can almost see the arrow, buried between scars older than the land upon which he lies. He bites back a curse, tongue pushing hard against the back of his teeth. His breathing staggers, evening out only when Ian pulls back.

“I hear you,” he answers, but doesn’t yet give word. Instead, he breathes deep, drawing magic into his fingertips. Behind his lids he can see them glow blue. In. The light runs down his fingers and through his arm, skirting around the wound and up his spine. Out. He exhales the light in a small cloud that flickers like a lightning storm seen from above. Another moment passes before he speaks. “I am ready.”

* * *

“Wisdom…” Ian repeats, and despite his focus there is an undertone of wistfulness in his voice. Solas has spoken often of spirits, many of a far more appealing nature than those the Circle had taught Ian to fear, those he had met in his own travels. “I would like to hear more of Wisdom, I think. And Joy.”

Solas’s breathing is ragged, and Ian allows time for it to settle, his palm still braced carefully against the wound, cool magic soothing the heat that throbs and leaps there. Solas does his best to measure his response, and Ian is impressed with the effort. Many are not so capable, and while he cannot find fault in their struggle with suffering, Solas’s determination to keep still eases Ian’s own efforts with the task at hand. The other mage grounds himself with a soft pulse of magic, energy expelling from chapped lips to rise in a burst of muted power that fills the tent with a dim glow before it fades and Solas murmurs his assent.

“Alright.” Ian says again. He keeps his palm still, reaching the other hand into the open satchel against his hip. There is no need to look; the contents are sparse–little more than the essentials for himself and his work. His fingers brush against packets of fruit, the wooden stem of his pipe, a wax-sealed phial…there. Tightly bundled linens.

He thumbs free the loose knot, pulling the outer linen–the smallest swatch–free, and rolls it into a wad.

“This will hurt.” he warns, though he has said as much before. “I don’t want you to bite yourself.” He leans, reaching over Solas’s shoulder to present the fabric. Solas does not seem to need further instruction, and Ian slides the fabric between his teeth. “Try to breathe, and not to move.” Another thing he has said before, but Solas is the larger elf, and when the pain returns it may not be so easy to exhibit this level of measured control.

Ian waits the span of two breaths. Solas has indicated that he is ready, but Ian knows that every moment of preparation is precious. What must happen next need be quick and careful, and he has no desire to rush ahead of Solas’s own capacities.

He waits the span of two breaths, and then he leans. He does not put his full weight into Solas, not yet, but his chest falls against Solas’s shoulder, his arm, and his right hand lands across Solas’s heart. He must be careful with his weight, with the pressure of his chest, of his hands, but he can feel Solas’s breath hitch, his heart beat with sudden frantic wildness. “Alright.” He murmurs. “Breathe. Breathe.”

Ian’s lids fall, and his breath measures itself in familiar rhythm. Magic blossoms ready in his chest, warm behind his ribs, and his world narrows again. He cannot see, not with his eyes, and the sight his magic provides is not quite the same. He sees in emotion, in sound. He sees in heartbeats and aches and concept. His magic extends beyond himself, and he travels back along the ragged path, the canyon of rendered flesh and bruised bone, until he can feel the bent barbs of the arrow where they dig cruelly into Solas’s shoulder. Barriers–the same that might have shielded Solas, had he managed to cast one–smooth the edges, a magical swath that evens the shape and softens the blade.

In one reality, he leans down, weight against Solas. Distantly, detachedly, he can feel rough ground biting into his own knees, is aware of disjointed breathing and racing heartbeats–his? Solas’s?–and hot blood pulsing more rapidly past his fingertips. Where his focus is, where his magic is, he feels the bent tip of the barb, the misshapen mass of metal that had fared poorly against bone. It takes concentration, energy, effort, but his barriers slip around it, between the barb and bone, reshaping the shield until there are no edges, no teeth. It cannot continue its work, because he will not allow it.

Ian’s breathing grows labored. Barriers on their own are a simple feat, but their maintenance is wearing even when they are not so intricate. He cannot relax, cannot release it, not yet, or it will worsen the wound. The wound itself acts to resist him, pressing tight against his magic, trying to close the distance between itself as though the spell is as wicked and foreign as the arrow itself.

“Ahn…” Breathe. Breathe. Distantly, detachedly, he can feel concentration tightening his jaw, is aware of trembling limbs and racing heartbeats–his? Solas’s?–and damp heat pooling against his chest.

The wound acts to resist him, pressing against his magic. To dislodge the arrowhead takes effort, force, and care. He works it free, ever aware of the way his work broadens the edges of this canyon, tears at unbroken muscle where he cannot help but do so. It is agonizing, and as brief as he might make it, but his body trembles with the effort, with the force he must exert, and when the arrow falls, he lifts his palm and allows it to land against his legs.

Weakness wracks his body, but he does not allow himself to consider it. Blood flows freely, now, the wound freshly opened and weeping anew. Ian’s palm lands again at the wound, and he extends himself once more. This time, his touch is warm. He weaves through the injury, tending first the bone and the tendons that articulate there. Muscles knit themselves back together, and with each passing heartbeat the wild resistance in them ebbs. They no longer writhe against his touch, but jump in symmetry to their own rhythm. He breathes, and with his breathing his magic expands. Life stirs within dead tissue, bruising and fever easing as his spells dance through them. By the time Ian tends the skin, the passage of blood has slowed, slowed, stopped.

His hand falls away, limp against his lap, and he leans back, slumping where he kneels, his right hand lingering absently at Solas’s arm.

“There.” Hoarse and cracking, his voice shatters the melody his magic had birthed within his soul. “You…you can move, if you like. Carefully, please. Slow…slowly.”

* * *

“I would like you to… hear about them,” he says through gulps of air.

Solas distracts himself with thoughts of what Wisdom would think of Ian. It had never cared that he had been born wild, taught only to spin fishing line and paint ceramics. No knowledge came from too low a place, it always knew wisdom could also be found beyond the limits of the Vir Dirthara. Perhaps that is why he listened to Ian, perhaps that is why he finds himself where he is now– caught between what he knew and what he knows.

He is only somewhat aware of the noises coming from behind. The rustling of fabrics, glass bumping up against wood. His eyes feel heavy, his lungs stripped bare, but he wills his eyes to remain open, and his lungs to swell with air. He takes the strip of fabric between without explanation, having been through this process before.

Ian’s commands are soft, yet still louder than the pain. Louder than the part of him which cries out for answers (he knows what he feels like, now– why does the feeling persist?), and the part which wants none (it will only lead to complications).

He breathes.

Solas inhales magic, catching the same scent of rain upon his tongue. He tastes his pain, Ian’s effort, and he breathes. The Veil bends, and the air is not so stale. Eyes that fought to remain open screw tightly shut, white flashing behind his lids. A grunt gathers in the pit of his throat, eking past gritted teeth. Solas cannot see Ian, nor his work, but he feels the magic pushing and pulling at his physical form. He sees its shape against his eyelids. He loses himself in it.

Lying on his side, bleeding, he cannot escape it. He could shut his eyes and block his ears, but this reality will continue to chase him. He cannot outrun the swell of magic in his chest, so familiar he imagines his eyes opening and seeing Elvhenan again. Solas’s limbs begin to shake, fingers ball fists that ignite the centre of his palm. He sees a spark of blue flame through his lashes. His own magic mingles with the rest, angry and confused. It doesn’t help. He needs to scream–

He screams.

It sets his throat aflame, trapped behind his teeth with nowhere to go. He screams for answers, for this moment to end, he screams Elvhen curses. None of them are anything more than muffled sounds against the back of the fabric he clenches between his teeth.

And he breathes again.

The worst of the pain is over, and the magic that touches him is made of another kind of light. Solas blinks his eyes open, where they watch the light play across the tent canvas once more. This part of the process he understands, though he still cannot see it. Warmth spurred on by warm thoughts, turning broken skin whole again. His body aches, but not as before, and welcomes Ian’s touch as his mind continues to mull over its meaning. The fire that started in his hand burns away, leaving not a trace of its existence, not even smoke.

Solas remains lost in the moment, testing his thoughts as tenderly as Ian does his wound. He turns them over in his head, finding answers, but no peace. An old curse comes to him, unbidden– Dirthara-ma.

Ian’s voice shatters his concentration, drawing him into a reality he yearns to withdraw from, and yet…

His magic leaves a hole where it touched him, one no healer can fill. Solas pushes himself up by his elbows, scarcely able to catch a glimpse of the world from right side-up before his vision swims. He surrenders to his own shortcomings, laying back down where he was set. Magic draws to his fingertips once more, this time as small sparks that he taps against his palm. He does this for a minute, without a word, before the sparks dissipate into open air.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” he says, and then again, “thank you.” Facing empty canvas, he relies upon his mother tongue to convey his gratitude, and his pain, even if Ian cannot grasp the extent of it. Solas forces humor, pushing past the urge to withdraw and find what spirits were no doubt drawn by Ian’s talents. “When I requested to watch you work, I did not anticipate it would be like this.”

* * *

He trembles with his efforts, but he breathes as his eyes drift closed, willing stillness and composure into his body. Solas takes him at his word, more than he intends, and tries to push himself up. Too quickly, too quickly, and he falls again.

Hand still lingering at Solas’s arm, Ian’s fingers squeeze gently. “Slowly.” He advises again.

Fingers withdraw, his unbloodied hand raising to rub the heel of his palm against his eyes. His heart beats too rapidly yet, and he is vaguely aware of its cause. Solas had not been in danger of death–not while Ian was so near, not when the one skill Ian has honed is at his disposal–but the fear, the worry…the proximity. Bare skin beneath his fingers. A heartbeat pulsing beside his own. Heat flushes his cheeks, and he pushes his palm further into his eye. A foolish thought in a foolish time, uninvited and distracting.

“I…I had hoped it would not be.” Ian admits, voice small against his exhaustion, his worry, his embarrassment. “I still hope for a world where all I need tend are kitchen wounds. But I am glad that I was here.”

He begins to speak another thought–to ask again after Wisdom, after Joy, after Solas’s pain–but a call from outside the canvas leaves his ears canting.

“Lavellan! Hey!”

“Excuse me.” Ian murmurs, hand falling from his eyes to push him from the ground. He is careful with his other hand, slick still with blood, holding it close to his chest, palm up. Short, stuttering steps carry him around Solas’s pillow, and he offers his patient another smile before he exits the tent.

The Herald waits there, a mere pace from the flap, arms piled high with linens, balancing a basin atop them. She whistles when she sees him, a high, falling note as she takes in the dampness of his clothes, the sticky red that stains his fingers.

“How’s he doin’?” She demands. Her lips are pursed, face half hidden behind her burden.

“Well enough that you might ask him yourself.”

Dark eyes peer around the basin, neck craned as she leans to study the tent flap. “Nah. I don’t do sick houses.” Her lips pull to the right, distorting a deep scar, and Ian understands.

“He will recover. He needs rest, more than anything.” He tells her.

“Tell him–” and she raises her voice, as though making certain it will carry through the canvas, “He tries that stupid shit again, I’ll kick his ass m'self. Here.” She pushes the bundle into his arm, and he struggles for a moment, balancing it against himself, trying desperately to keep the fabric from landing against his bloodsoaked clothes. “Thora thought you’d need it.”

She doesn’t wait for him to turn around, doesn’t pause to make certain he has control of the fabric or that the basin doesn’t fall. Dust stirs at her heels as she stalks away, and her retreat is so sudden that Ian is left gaping for the span of a breath. He understands, however, and he recovers, smile curling at the side of his mouth despite himself as he turns to edge back into the tent, a balancing act of bloodied verses clean linens.

“She was worried.” He informs Solas, leaning to one side as he sets the stacked bundle down. He does not add that she was not alone in her fears. He bends, picking up the basin to move it. This tent is small, but there is space enough that the Inquisition had installed a rudimentary bench along its back. Tucked within the basin rest two swollen waterskins, and Ian moves one to the side, upending the other within the bowl. His hand hovers over it, and heat blisters there until the water boils, steam rising from its surface. A minute, no more, and then a wave of curled fingers send frost blossoming through it. He tests it, dipping bloodied fingers to break the surface. Stains sprawl across the water’s surface, but the temperature is adequate. He rinses the rest of his forearm, fingertips catching at bubbled scars he refuses to look at, and he pulls his sleeves down before his skin is dry.

He turns back to Solas, picking up the basin along with the second waterskin as he returns to Solas’s side. "Here.“ He kneels again, the basin deposited at his knee, a careful distance so that it might not be toppled. “Try to sit up. Slowly. I will help.” His brow furrows again, concern and compassion folding the branches of his vallaslin. “I promise, we’re almost done.”

* * *

Solas relents for the moment, choosing to remain lying while his vision realigns itself. It does not aid the cloud he feels fall over him, separating him from himself. Ian’s hand ties him to himself, grounding him when forces within himself would see him without, but it doesn’t last. Cold air fills the space where Ian’s hand was, no magic lingering at his back. He weaves his own, a light in his palm ignites and swims before his eyes before his vision clears at last.

“That is a lofty dream,” he says in a voice faraway to his own ears. An impossible one, he thinks, but does not speak it. He catches a glimpse of Ian smiling at him, a warm sight, despite the wear in it. If it were not for the memory of the pain he just endured, he might wonder which of them had just had an arrowhead removed from their flesh. He wonders if it is the effort alone that wore Ian out, or if there is some form of sympathy to his magic.

From beyond the tent’s flaps he hears another voice, rougher than Ian’s, and tinged with concerns despite evidence to the contrary.

At Ian’s assurance Solas laughs, gently so as to rub at his already raw lungs– his efforts, however, are for naught. The snort that follows is not so easy to control, and followed with a pained, quiet “–Ah!” He curls in upon himself, clutching the light to his chest for a moment. It beats against his chest at a different tempo to his heart, a slower one that does not elevate at the merest hint of Ian’s touch.

Solas forces himself into this moment, ears perked, honing in on anything he sees or hears. Magic stirs the air once more, a gentle spell, but he recognises its intention. Bubbles pop beneath the surface of hot water mere seconds later, followed by a cold breath to temper boiling waves.

“Do I seem eager to be done?” he asks, craning his neck back to look up at Ian.

His face burns beneath his freckles, and though Solas tells himself it is from the magic he works, he knows it is a lie. He is too proud of his ability to read people to not notice there is something more behind Ian’s eyes, even if neither of them voice it. He props himself up on his elbows once more, and Ian recognises his cue. Ian’s hands are wet on his back, but they do not slip. As Solas’s body bends he can feel dried blood crack, pulling his skin tight. His head upright, he feels his head grow light again, but this time has to hands to keep him upright.

It doesn’t take long for his vision to focus, eyes trained ahead upon the beam of light that strains in from the tent’s flaps.

* * *

Solas’s laughter is rough, worn. He may not be able to help the snort that accompanies it–the genuine amusement that rumbles in his chest and escapes through the fastest path–but it doubles him over with aching. Ian’s creased brow shadows, and he is careful as he helps Solas ease into a sitting position, fingers braced against bare biceps as the other sways, dizzy in the wake of blood-loss and movement.

“I–” Solas’s question startles him, and for just a moment their eyes meet. Only a moment, and then his gaze falls, face flushing fresh as he mumbles. “I…I can’t imagine this is an experience worth prolonging.”

Assured that Solas has steadied enough to hold himself upright, Ian reaches for the second waterskin.

“Drink.” He advises, loosening the cap before he hands it over. The basin comes with him as he stands once more, circling to collect the topmost linens from the discarded pile before he crosses behind Solas. The rough ground bites into his knees, and he shifts slightly before dipping the linen into the still-warm water.

Fingers tremble at the surface of the water, and he pauses to pull up one sleeve again. Just one, just what is needed, and his heart clenches painfully at the sight of his own skin. Tension builds in his jaw, and he forces a swallow, pushing his discomfort further down as he wrings the cloth over the basin.

This should be the simple task, he thinks, pressing the linen against Solas’s back. The blood there has lost its heat, has begun thicken–in places left untended by the Cadash cousins, it has dried. This should be the simple task, gently guiding the cloth until it saturates, pulling it away to rinse it in the basin, repeating the process until pale freckles bloom across bowed shoulders.

This should be the simple task, but his hand trembles. His hand trembles and his heart races and heat blisters the skin of his cheeks and his throat is unbearably tight.

“You…” Cracking splits the word, and he has to swallow again before he makes a second attempt. “You won’t…there’s no scar.”

No new scar, at least. No scar from this. There are scars that branch beneath his attentions that he cannot tend, can do no more than wipe away the blood. It feels like failure, and it always does, and for a moment that impulse distracts him from his fumbling.

“You…you were telling me about Wisdom.” His voice sounds small against his ears–smaller than usual, smaller than his weariness might excuse, but he finishes the question. “What sort of questions did you ask it?”

* * *

“The worst is over, is it not? And I am in no state to go anywhere.” At least not on his own two feet. Thankfully, in the Fade the freshest wounds are mere memories if one wills them so. Yet Solas is of two minds. The first longs for the familiarity of air permeated with magic, the comforting call of the Fade and its wonders, away from a world where everything is heavy with the passage of time. The second wishes to stay, eyes open, until exhaustion draws them shut. It wishes to stay, to experience this moment, rather than draw back into what he knows.

What he wants, however, does not matter– at least not now. The knowledge that he will defer to Ian’s judgement is a relief, and puts peace to his conflicting thoughts.

He takes the waterskin and raises the lid to his lips. Solas does not realise how parched he is until the first drop soaks his tongue. If there was any hesitancy before, it is gone now, and he tips his head back to swallow greedy mouthfuls. Water dribbles from his chin when he stops to breathe, smeared across his jaw as his left hand swipes across his face.

So absorbed in his drinking, he scarcely notices Ian’s hesitancy until he feels the heat from the cloth hovering an inch above his skin. Solas draws his lips together, grateful for the warning, unintentionally though it may be.

“No?”

Solas can only turn his head to the left, and his back tenses when he turns too far. The wound is gone, but the pain lingers still, and his head feels as if it is made of cotton. “If only I had known you when I earned my scars.” If only, he thinks, if only. Then there would be no question, no doubt, nothing to stop him from thanking Ian with a tender kiss to the back of his hand. “Then perhaps I would not wear my battles so openly.”

He takes another drink from the waterskin as Ian asks his question. They come slower than before, but in some way that is more familiar. Ian’s focus while he healed nearly transformed him into someone new, or perhaps brought out something that always lingered beneath the surface, beneath freckled skin.

“I was young when we met, and my world was small.” His village could never have prepared him to meet a spirit so old it was ancient even when the world was young. “We asked one another questions, actually. I had met spirits before, but none like it, and so I wished to know all about its existence. I asked its name, and why it took the shape of–” Solas hesitates, feigning a wince so that he may pass it off for pain. He still remembers Wisdom’s shape that day, though he is not sure if he made it himself. The form of a wolf, hulking, so large it could scarcely move within the tomb it had made its home. “– the shape of a mother wolf. It asked me how to clean a fish, and how to make paints from dried flowers.” Solas chuckles to himself. “In hindsight, I believe it was humouring me, but at the time I felt I had something to offer it.”

* * *

“The worst is over,” Ian agrees. “But you need rest for strength to return, and I have never known you to forego the opportunity to nap.”

The cloth in his hand has grown stained, saturated, but it continues its work as he drags it gently across recently mended skin. Solas’s words do not quite land in jest, something in them too heavy, too weary.

“I–” I’m sorry. It’s a foolish thought, and he feels his blush return anew. He does not know where Solas had acquired these scars, and he does not ask, but something stirs beside his heart and he finds himself wishing that he had been there, wherever there had been. Had Solas been alone?

That thought troubles him, and he tries to rinse it away as he wrings the rag once more. Thoroughly, this time, so that it is nearly dry as he dabs away what dampness clings yet to Solas’s back, dabbing moisture away from pale freckles and yesterday’s scars.

Ian leans back, still for a moment as he breathes. His magic pulses weakly, yet, and without its reserve he feels lacking, empty. It will take some time before he is recovered, but it is a small price to pay for what he can accomplish.

He breathes, and then he stands, collecting the basin so that he can dispose of the soiled water. Setting it down near the tent flap, he collects the rest of the linens the Herald had pushed into his arms, careful still not to stain them with the slowly drying dampness that clings to his own clothes.

Solas’s head cannot quite follow his movements, stiff neck and tense shoulders limiting how he might turn. As Ian sorts through the linens, he watches Solas’s face from the corners of his eyes, listening to the story and noting where the hesitation falls beside a grimace. He frowns, wondering if there is more he could yet do to ease the healing of the wound. Ian opens his mouth, begins to say that the soreness will pass, that this is not a permanent ache, but Solas continues to speak of Wisdom, and the form it had taken, and Ian’s ears perk forward with sudden and eager interest.

“A mother wolf.” Ian cannot disguise his delight, the giggle that lifts his smile. “That’s fitting, I think.”

It is strange to think of Solas as a child–if for no other reason that it is difficult to imagine, sometimes, that everyone had been a child before the turning of time. The nature of Wisdom’s questions is endearing, and appropriate, whether the spirit had been humoring Solas or not. “I expect you did. Maybe not information, but….I don’t know much about spirits, but if, as you say, they are as people, there are more needs to be met than the exchange of knowledge. Even if its questions were for your benefit, anyone called Wisdom would know that children have a great deal to offer, so long as you have time to listen.”

Dropping again, he crouches beside where Solas sits, pulling aside the stained bedding, replacing it with practiced, deft motions. Dirty cloth bundles to the side, clean smoothed bare save for where Solas sits. “Here. Lay down, and I can get rid of these.”

* * *

“When I do I tend not to advertise the fact,” he says. “If I lose sleep it is only for something, or someone, important.”

Ian cannot know the evenings he has spent conversing with him rather than slipping into the folds of the Fade. How he might suppress a yawn against the back of his hand for another ten minutes more together. At first it had been interesting, even amusing, to see what the denizens of this world could grasp for themselves. Over time, it became unnerving, and yet he continued to seek Ian out, unable to rest until he learned the fullest extent of their humanity. His thoughts do not ring as loudly as those he knows as Elvhen, but they ring just as true.

Solas reaches around his middle, touching himself where Ian’s hands had been moments ago.It seems, at last, he had his answer: that there is no end to it.

His heart lifts at the sound of Ian’s laughter, enchanted by the honesty in the sound. His heart lifts, his pulse quickens, and yet he still hopes to look at Ian and see he was right in the first, to see the bottom of the pool, and all Ian– all anyone in this world– has to offer. But when he looks at Ian he sees no end, and it twists his gut even as his lips split into a genuine smile. “You would know better than I the nature of wolves,” he remarks. “But I agree, especially considering the wild young boy I was, I would think naught but a wolf could ever tame me.”

It feels odd to talk about this to one who has no concept of what his world was like. Whatever Ian imagines will be far from the reality of their meeting, but he is glad to share it all the same.

He snorts, and it aches less this time. Perhaps it is the lingering effects of Ian’s magic soothing his pain. “It did not need to know how to clean a fish, at best I can imagine it passing that knowledge on to someone else in need. As I grew, and began to travel, I would return with more to share. Wisdom is one of my oldest, and dearest, friends.”

And one of the few oldest and dearest friends whose hearts had not turned black in the intervening years.

“To this day we still speak.”

Solas stiffens briefly in anticipation of Ian’s touch once more, but feels a twinge of disappointment when the linens are simply laid beside him. He moves without question, lying down upon the cool, fresh bedding with a sigh. His hands and feet move as if they belong to another, their tips tingling– be it from blood-loss or something borne of his own mind, he struggles to discern. Whatever the cause, Ian was wise to suggest rest, though not for the reasons he had in mind.

* * *

Ian’s chuckle is soft as he folds most of the soiled linens. He keeps the rag he had used to clean Solas’s skin, tucked over his elbow. “Then I do not see why you would forgo sleep now.” He is hardly worth such self-denial, particularly when Solas’s wound demands rest and recuperation.

Bloodied bedding joins the basin near the flap of the tent, and Ian bends to collect his discarded glove, keeping his back to Solas as he tugs up his sleeve so that he might replace it. Palm up, Ian’s eyes catch as though snagged against the welted line that crosses there. It freezes him, tightening his chest with painful fear, before he manages to slide the leather over it. He doesn’t turn back around until his sleeve has fallen and his fingers might bend against the worn joints of the glove, familiar and comforting in its soft give.

“I have found that mother wolves have very little interest in taming the children in their care.” He notes lightly, taking a seat near where Solas has settled. The still-damp rag runs over his clothes. The blood there will not give so easily as what had washed free from freckled shoulders, but he tries all the same, if only to speed his clothes’ drying.

“What use have wolves for being tame? Better to guide the inexperienced in what ways to be wild, so that they might later guide others. The heart of wolves has always been wild, and the wisest mothers know that it is better to nurture a heart than contest it.”

He smiles, thinking fondly of memories of his own, and imagining this spirit who so clearly embodied that which it valued. “As you tell it…it sounds as though Wisdom agrees with me, though I…I would hesitate to presume on behalf of your friend. Perhaps it did not need the knowledge of how to clean a fish, but you retain a love of questions and their answers, of learning and sharing what you know. It seems to me that Wisdom has been a good friend for you to have.”

Ian does not watch Solas as he speaks, his words forming slowly and carefully as he dabs his clothes dry. He will have to use magic to lift the stains, later, but at the moment he still has a patient to tend.

“Sleep.” He advises. “I’ll sit with you, for a while. I had planned on going for a run, this evening, but if you awaken and have need of me, Scout Harding will know how to call me.”

* * *

He frowns, unsure if Ian is being playful or modest. “I’m sorry,” Solas says, blinking, “I thought the implication of that sentence was clear.”

Whatever Ian is, whoever he is, his significance is obvious. No one ordinary has ever inspired this within him before, and Solas doubts that this is the exception to the rule.

In that moment, he curses his doubts, for they dampen the urge for him to respond in jest. Ian speaks with great knowledge of wild hearts, for such a gentle-sounding voices. Perhaps it is his untameable nature that has led him here, rather than a Dalish camp or Circle Tower. Some people were simply not meant to be caged, not even by those they love. These thoughts manifest as a simple, knowing smile as he shifts into a more comfortable position. “As I said,” he hums, “you know their nature better than I.”

His heart has resigned itself to a frenzied drum so long as he remembers Ian’s bare hands on his skin, but his breath is steady. “One of my oldest, and dearest friends,” he adds, biting back a yawn. Sleep claims him, and the ache that spreads through him becomes warm with magic.

Before his eyes close, he reaches out ‘til he touches one of Ian’s hands. The bare skin is gone, covered by a pair of cracked leather gloves. It makes lingering easier, though less satisfying. His fingers curl, squeezing gently before they release him. “Thank you, again,” he says. “Dar’eth shiral, lethallen.”

His eyes drift closed, and for a moment he listens to the sound of Ian dabbing at his robes. When he is ready, he inhales, a slow, steady breath inwards, and when he exhales, he slips through the Veil, hoping to find peace beyond it.


End file.
